Memories of a Shieldmaiden
by Speechless
Summary: When Faramir asks Éowyn to recall the story of her childhood, a tale unfolds. She re-lives her victories, losses, and the struggle to find her identity growing up in the turmoil of late-Third Age Rohan. An account of Éowyn's life.
1. Memories of a Shieldmaiden

The new and revamped version of MOAS! Woohoo! A few changes made here and there. More chapters added. Woot.  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Middle-earth or anyone who lives there. Oh, how I wish I lived there. I'm not making money off of this. This disclaimer applies to all the chapters, because I'm too lazy to keep typing it over and over.  
  
Author's Note: I've researched my butt off for this fanfic, as it's my first non-parody LotR one, and I've still found many gaps in the information on Rohirric culture. Thus, I've had to use a bit of creative license at times. Bear with me--however, if you find something that's really not right, feel free to pull a Treebeard and set an army of angry Ents on me. I'd appreciate it and would fix whatever mistake I made. (I'd also probably die, but that's beside the point.)  
  
Dedication: To Hammy, for supporting me in my crankiness and self-hate during the early days of the idea-formation, and for encouraging me to post the beginning. To Arwen and Bjam, for being a source of inspiration and bits of joy. And to Éowyn, for letting me tell your story the best I can.   
  
Okay, enough preamble, here's the story.  
  
--Speechless  
  
  


  
Intro  
  
**Memories of a Shieldmaiden**  
  
[June 3020, T.A.]  
  
  


  
Faramir's arm was wrapped around my shoulder. He leaned his head against mine, his coal-black waves intertwining with my golden ones. The deep blue of the late summer sky seemed to cloak the forests of Ithilien in silky darkness, wrapping my heart gently in the soft glow of the stars. Isil was in full glory, a pearl in the calm of the sky. Relief swept over me anew as I realized I would never have to deal with anything from my old life again, though ghosts and phantoms from my past still visited me as I slept. Whenever I awoke, screaming in my native tongue for help, or moaning for my brother, my husband would cradle me in his arms like a child and whisper me back to sleep. Suddenly I clasped his hand tightly, and he turned to look at me.  
  
You are troubled? he inquired, his brow furrowed concernedly. I shook my head no, but I hesitated for a moment after my lie. Of course I was troubled; how could I not be, even in the soothing warmth of his embrace? I thought of home, so far away... _No,_ I corrected myself, _Edoras is not your home. This is your home now._   
  
I answered vaguely, knowing this would only stir more questions. Faramir was ever interested in my thoughts, and was always eager to share his.   
  
Of Rohan.   
  
I sighed, imagining the stretches of green grass, the sound of the horses shaking the earth with their thunderous hooves, the River Snowbourn's ice blue ripples in the sun.  
  
You have barely told me anything about your past, he whispered. And I hear you in the night, and I would console you of your fears if I only knew enough of what caused them. I was silent. My skills in the Rohirric Tongue are lacking.  
  
I do not wish to revisit my childhood, I said with a shiver. It would bring me pain.  
  
It brings you pain now, but perhaps if you shared it with me I could help you to drive away the memories, if that is what you desire. He drew me closer to him and kissed me lightly on the cheek. When I did not answer, he went on. The memories of a Shieldmaiden would be deeply interesting to such a plain man as I. For am I not married to this Shieldmaiden, who hides herself from me still? I wish to know you truly, Éowyn. And then I shall let you know me.  
  
All the while he said this my mind had been flooded with images from my youth, as if a dam had been broken somewhere inside. The pain I felt every day as my Rohan collapsed around me, my life being encroached upon by a powerhungry rat of a man, the loss of so many whom I had loved... Tears began to stream down my face, and I buried my head on his shoulder.   
  
I cannot lose you, my love, I said in between shuddering gasps. Long ago I would never display my emotions so, for it was a sign of weakness. But now I did not care if I was weak or strong, tall or short, plump or thin as long as this man would still be with me and hold me. I must not lose you!  
  
Startled by such a strong reaction to his suggestion, he embraced me tightly.   
  
You aren't losing me, love, he reassured me. I straightened up, and I felt the dull hopeless sinking in my stomach as I prepared myself to relive my worst days.  
  
After my father's death, as I stood watching the smoke where his horse was being burned, a toothless old woman came up to me. She told me in such a life I must expect loss.


	2. Aldburg

Chapter 2  
  
**Aldburg**  
  
[Summer 3002, T.A.]  


  
The death of my father left me feeling a strange sense of emptiness, like a faithful pond that suddenly dried up one day, without warning. The way one feels when one is walking up a stairway and not looking down, thinking there is one more stair than there actually is and so one's foot falls, expecting a sturdy step beneath it. But there was no step now that Papa was gone.   
  
The day he died was a hazy summer one, thick with humidity and the whisper of rain. As I stood near the main road,I saw a small party of bedraggled men, some on horses and others on foot, approach the small Eastfold town where I lived. All looked weary with sadness and battle, each step seeming to cost them much energy. I saw Engel, the man with the flame-red beard, with whom my father always drank and laughed with in the evenings. Normally he would greet me with a great smile and ruffle my hair, saying And how fares the lovely lass o' the family? But as he and his party passed, he seemed not to see me, and the only words I caught were moans of pain. My heart turned a somersault as I noticed his side, wrapped in a length of blood-drenched cloth.   
  
I ran quickly home, panting in the hot air. I found my brother hunched over, sitting on a stump and carefully chiseling at a small block of wood. He looked up when I came to him, breathing heavily as if I had just run the length and breadth of the Mark.   
  
Papa's party has come home, I explained, pulling him up by the hand and practically dragging him up so he could see the main road where the men were still straggling in. There were very few, shockingly few, I noticed with a jolt to my stomach. I searched for my father's face among them, but did not see it. I forced myself to check again, but still no Papa. At the end of the line I saw a horse, limping pathetically, patches of blood staining its once pure-white coat. I saw the grey mark below its forelock. Papa's horse. Riderless.  
  
Éomer, it seemed, had realized it the same moment I had, and began running down the parched slope towards the main road. I bounded after him, waves of shock crashing down on me with each step I took. Where was Papa? Not dead, surely not dead. I knew too well the meaning of death--I had seen old women collapse with weariness and never rise, seen men ride out to throw back the Orcs on our fields and come back a fewer number than when they set out. I saw the piles of burning carcasses of horses, the masses of my people stretched out on miles of burnt land, their ashen faces twisted in expressions denoting the terror of their last moments living.   
  
As we arrived at the road, Papa's horse suddenly swooned in exhaustion and its legs crumpled, heaving its beautiful body to a last rest on the ground. I ran and threw my arms around its neck. Mealc-hwit, white as milk, gave a last blink at me as if to say, _I stood by your father as long as I could. Forgive me._ After a minute of lying beside the dead horse, embracing it tightly, I felt myself pried away and picked up by an unknown stranger. I bit and kicked as viciously as I could, rage surging inside me at the death of my father. How dare they take me away from the last part of my father I would ever see? For the bracelet of his own hair braided with Mealc-hwit's was stuck to the blood-encrusted coat by burrs. My father had cut off the bracelet as a mark of his last goodbye to such a faithful companion...to be burned at the Releasing ceremony.  
  
My captor threw me over his shoulder, while I tore at his hair unrelentingly. I was finally deposited at the dusty side of the road. Tears began to flow silently, try though I might to stop them. My Papa was gone. Never again would I hear his deep voice laugh at my antics. I remembered the time when Éomer and I had crept out at night, on a secret quest to snatch as much gundy as we could from the kitchens. Papa, awake for a quick snack, walked in on the two of us, our faces coated with the stickiness of the candy. I hastily tried to lick the cinnamon from my fingers to hide the evidence, but instead of punishing us, Éomund had just laughed and helped himself to some gundy as well.   
  
The memory did not help to stem the torrents of tears that came out of my now bloodshot eyes, stinging from a cloud of something smelly. Smoke. The heralder of fire, meaning death and last partings of the souls of the departed. I turned gingerly and saw Mealc-hwit's body curling into the blackness of the flames. I felt a cold hand come to a rest on my heaving shoulder, withered with age and brown from the sun. I flinched and turned my head quickly away.   
  
Do not grieve, child. The voice was that of an old crone, whispery and crackling. I stalked away a few steps. I would not have her see me cry! Your father would not wish for you to grieve.   
  
Abandoning my pride, I whipped around to face her, blazing with hatred, though I had never seen her before in my life.  
  
How dare you pretend to know what my father would have wanted! My voice came out raspy and trembling, not the effect I had hoped for, but I was almost too angry to notice. You don't know him! You're just old and stupid, wanting to sound wise and knowledgeable. And he's lost now, he's lost, I'll never see him again...! I flung myself back to the ground in a childish tantrum. The woman clicked her tongue and shh'ed me, creakily bringing herself down to the ground beside me.  
  
In such a life you must expect loss, she said. I cannot see what tomorrow will bring, only more losses of good Rohirrim, young and old. The Riddermark is fighting a battle that is already lost, Éowyn Éomundsdohtar. I see for you a life filled with loss, for the days of glory are passed now--but do not despair, she lifted my little tearstained face in her hands. I can also see in you the power to overcome these losses with grace and to get up again and fight til your body runs out of breath. That power your father possessed, my dear. That is the power Rohan needs.  
  
I did not like her words, and wanted to get away from this peculiar stranger as soon as possible. I wriggled away from her bony grasp and ran again towards home.  
  
I found Éomer next to his own horse, Berhtberie, gazing out at the settlement from our small hill. I noticed his hand gripped the bracelet on his sword-arm's wrist, identical to my father's, a braid of white and gold hair. Without ceremony I ran to him and buried my face in his chest, my tears gone but a horrible aching in my stomach for my Papa I would never see again. Never, ever, in a thousand ages...  
  


  


  
My mother, Théodwyn Princess of the Mark, closed her chamber door and allowed none to enter. Throughout the night I heard her grief-ridden sobs and occasional soft cries for her husband. She had always told him he would come to his end on a ride for Orcs, dying to protect some undeserving nomad. Constantly fearing his death, especially recently in the days when raids became more frequent, she began to waste away in her worry.   
  
I loved her but feared her, for she was stern in her punishments and seemed to always disapprove of my romping around with Éomer like a lad. She was horrorstruck when Papa suggested I be trained as a warrior along with my brother, for he noticed how enthusiastically I questioned about his rides, his sword, his horse. A lump rose in my throat as I realized I would never be trained. My father was dead.   
  
Hours became days. Days became weeks. And still my mother would not emerge from her solitude in her chamber. The crying had not stopped, and she would scream oaths if a servant tried to persuade her to come forth. Her meals were brought to her by the maids, but she barely picked at her favorite dishes. As the fresh pain of my father's death began to subside, I worried anew about my mother.   
  
What happens when people don't eat? I asked Éomer timidly one day in the stables. I honestly did not know, but I judged that since the maids made such a fuss about my finishing my supper, it must be important.   
  
They starve, he answered shortly, obviously trying to avoid talking about Mother. He changed the subject rapidly. Would you like to go for a ride on the back of Berhtberie this morning? I'll lead her.  
  
What's starving?  
  
Well, eventually you need to eat, and...well, starving is when you don't, or you can't, and...if you don't for a long time, then you...die, he finished awkwardly. So is it a yes or a no about Berhtberie, eh?  
  
Death is always the consequence! I said, annoyed that yet another parent was in danger of dying. Why can't it be that she will get boils all over, or her toes will swell up, or... why death?   
  
I don't know. Mother won't die, she'll come to her senses and become herself again. He spoke with such complete certainty that I couldn't help but trust him. Éomer wouldn't say such a thing without knowing its total truth. I breathed a sigh of relief.  
  
I'm glad. I shivered. I don't want Mother to die.  
  
Neither do I.  
  
I'll come for a ride on Berhtberie, then. Can you let her run? Please? I begged, forgetting my recent worries.   
  
You know Mother would have a fit if she saw you riding straddle-ways on a horse like a man, _gallopping_... he trailed off. Maybe she needs to be good and angry to become herself again. A slow grin spread across his face. Get yourself up, then.  
  
I laughed out loud, the first time since before father's death weeks before, as I grasped the horse's mane and my own golden locks flew back from my face and whipped around in the wind. Éomer had let go of the lead rope quite soon after the horse began to move, allowing me my fun. If only Mother would look out of her window right now and see me riding like a lad on my brother's fine horse, my skirts flying up in my face, perhaps she would be startled enough to realize how silly she was acting. That was it, I convinced myself. Mother was only being silly, and would soon run out to the field in a frenzy, screaming shrilly at me to come down from the horse immediately and act like a proper lady. I would almost be glad to hear that familiar command if it meant my mother would be herself again.  
  
But she did not see me. The next day I was summoned to her chamber, for she had called out for me. As I tiptoed nervously to the door, I heard not the voice of my mother, but some soothing words from the nurse, Bircwine.   
  
Ye may come in, Éowyn, Bircwine said in a louder tone. She sensed me outside the door--an unnerving talent she seemed to possess. My slipper-clad feet tread softly on the floor to her bed, where I received quite a shock. This was not the mother I had known--this was nothing more than a skeleton, skin as white as bone, and eyes sunken in their sockets. Her hair was tangled and strewn about on the pillows, not at all its usual shining curtain of gold. Horrified, I sat on a stool beside her.  
  
I asked nervously, wondering if she even knew I was there. She had not looked at me as I came in; her eyes stared blankly ahead of her as if there were great volumes written in air before her. I...have brought you some flowers, Mother. I reached for her hand, wrenched it open, and clamped her fingers one by one around the stems. Her skin was clammy to the touch. She did not react, just looked straight ahead. I glanced at Bircwine, but she had gone about setting up a tray for Théodwyn's midday meal. With her back turned to me, she answered my queries automatically.  
  
Tell ye ma of ye doings. Her Highness is very curious as to what her beloved daughter has amused herself with. She then turned and shot me an almost accusing glare, as if she had known about my ride on Berhtberie. I turned toward my mother again.  
  
I...have been out with Éomer. Very much, Mother. We go riding out in the fields to dig up ancient spearheads. We think we found one that belonged to Eorl himself. We had absolutely no foundation for our guess as to the spearhead's owner, but it sounded impressive to say so. And it was allowed for us to take it, if it was true, for Eorl was our ancestor. I was immensely proud of being a member of the House of Eorl and was always happy to present this fact in any way possible.   
  
After a few minutes of awkward silence in which I stared at my mother's face, silently willing her to speak up, to say anything, I began to grow tired of this hopeless game.  
  
Bircwine, she won't say anything.  
  
O' course she will, child. So impatient, so like her father. If I thought the wound of my father's loss had healed into a scab from the days of silence, right then it was ripped open and bled freely. And as the memory of my father's riderless horse came floating back, taunting me, it dawned on me that Mother was not being silly. She could not bear the weight of life now that Éomund was gone. She could not pull through like the old woman said I could. Mother was not being silly. I would lose both my parents in the same month.


	3. Journey to Edoras

Chapter 3  
  
**Journey to Edoras**  
  
Late August, 3002  
  


  
  
I sat in a cramped carriage between Éomer and Éomer's trunk. A sliver of window was still visible on my right side, allowing me to glimpse the vanishing settlement of Aldburg behind me. Bircwine sat across from us, atop a trunk and surrounded by two more. She dabbed at her face with a green-tinged sleeve and cleared her nose loudly, her bloodshot eyes squinted in grief. Her mistress was dead, and now she must leave Aldburg and her fellow, Hunig. They had planned to wed in the early Autumn. I would have been happy to leave her in the Eastfold, for she reminded me of my mother and father constantly, always comparing us to them. But Éomer insisted on bringing her.  
  
I craned my neck to see more of the lush plains rolling by. Though the land was very flat, the carriage bounced and jolted us back and forth. We headed for the road that connected Minas Tirith with the courts of Edoras. The road lay due South, but we still had the River Entwash to cross and so many more leagues of green grasses and wildflowers...  
  
Éomer began to snore loudly. I sighed, feeling a strange mixture of sadness, excitement, and security. I was, of course, still pained by the loss of my parents. But I was with Éomer and Bircwine in this carriage, the coachman out front with two of the King's knights, in leather armor, clutching swords at their sides. I had never felt safer.  
  
Yet the mystery of what lay before me was intoxicating: our _fædera_, uncle, had sent for us the be brought to the Courts. It was to be our home now, the city Edoras, of which men constantly spoke. Papa was always giving the news from Edoras at the supper table, his voice rising excitedly when somethig the King had said pleased him. Mother would always smile at the mention of King Théoden, for he was her brother. And now Éomer and I were to live in his house with his son, the Prince Théodred.  
  
The sun was setting pink over the plains, I saw out my window. The horses had slowed to a strolling walk. I heard the soft voices of the King's men conversing, probably of the Sorcerer in his tower to the North-west and Mordor to the East. I drifted off to sleep...  
  
_The King stood on the plains before us. I was dressed in Mother's regal crimson gown, holding a star in my hands. I threw it into the sky but Éomer caught it and ran ahead of me. I ran too, but tripped on my skirts and fell down, down, into the arms of the King, who had no face but dragged me to a great house where a man stood. It was Papa! I ran to him, but then he changed, now a man with greasy yellow-gray hair and mossy teeth, wrapped in sweaty furs. He grabbed my arm and pulled me over to him--  
  
_There was a roar, so close to the carriage. My head snapped up from its resting place on Éomer's trunk. I saw one of the King's men spring up from the ground. He loosed an arrow into the distance; I could not see his target but heard its low, guttural laugh as it dodged the arrow and loosed its own, which flew through the air with an audible _hiss_ and _thunk _ as it hit the wooden carriage. The iron tip just barely stuck through above my head. Biting down a scream I clung to Éomer's arm, his grey eyes alert and awake. Bircwine was stiff with fear, face pale and teeth chattering.  
  
The Uruks have come from the North, these are no Orcs... she stared out the window. Still I could olnly see the archer, who had now drawn his sword. With a sudden, quick motion I saw him thrust forward and heard the Uruk's moan of pain. I almost pitied him, alone without his horrible kin in the East Emnet, dying. Until I heard him cough and splutter out,  
  
Die, Strawheads! You and your country are not long for this world!  
  
He had used the old Dunlending taunt about the Rohirrim's golden hair. _Well, he certainly could have done better than that,_ I thought. _Strawheads, pssht._ I fingered my hair protectively. It was much preferable to his matted stringy head, which now lay where I could see it. He was not so hideous as the Aldburg boys had made the Uruks out to be. Then I realized they had probably never seen an Uruk before and had made it all up. We were all too familiar with the smaller, sinewy version of this great beast, the Mordor Orc. I shuddered. Tonight had been a close encounter.  
  


  
  


Our crossing of the River Entwash was easy, and the lands that were still to be corssed between the River and the Road went by quickly. The Road made travel much easier, and soon we were passing small villages filled with cheerful folk going about their daily tasks. They were all so loose in their movements, laughing with one another and chattering absentmindedly. I heard the weaver-women chanting loudly to the rhythm of their looms as we passed. Children ran after one another in the grasses and young men could be seen in the nearby fields racing on their horses. _So this is the Westfold_, I thought jealously. _They have no idea what dangers lie so close to them. They do not know death like we do in the Eastfold._  
  
These villages, I soon learned, were the very outskirts of Edoras. The population grew denser as we curled around the edges of the Ered Nimrais and approached the great hill where the city stood. My heart jumped. We were almost to my new home.  
  
I wondered if we were to live in the great building on the very top. I assumed so, for it looked grander and more majestic than any I had ever seen before. Its thatched roof gleamed in the morning sun like pure gold. The carriage lurched and threw us back to our seats as we made the ascent up the hill past the gates of the city. I saw clouds of my favorite flower, _simbelmynë_, atop great mounds alongside the paths. Éomer pointed out the tiny window, noticing the direction of my gaze.  
  
The mounds of the Kings of Rohan, he explained. They say the _simbelmynë_ grows thicker upon the mounds of the dead royalty than anywhere else in Rohan.  
  
If I had stood upon a mound I would have been knee-deep in the joyful white blossoms. But then, my knees were a mere seven years' s distance from the ground. I thought it strange that such a happy flower should grow on the mounds of the departed.  
  
Through the cobbled streets the carriage twisted. I felt encased in wood and stone. It was so different from the open arms of the Eastfold that I suddenly felt a surge of doubt. How could I lived encaged in this city like a beast behind bars?  
  
Look at that! Éomer exclaimed, shaking my shoulder and pointing ahead. The immense building stood atop the highest part of the hill, directly above the narrow street we trundled through presently. I saw its pillars, engraved with intertwined dragons and grasses in a decorative knot design. Men in gleaming helmets and leather armor, spears in hand, stood before a pair of great wooden doors. It seemed from a distance that every inch of the building was carved elaborately with designs of intricately woven strands curling and bending. I could not see the golden roof now from the carriage's position below the high cliff. To my surprise, the carriage came to a rolling halt and with one last smack of the back of my head on the wooden seat, we had arrived.  
  
Creakily I stood and banged my head on the low ceiling of the carriage. The King's man who had not slain the Uruk opened the door and was hit by a trunk that had been leaning against it. In this clumsy way all three of us left the carriage where we had spent the past couple days.  
  
We were led up a wide stone stairway further along down the path that looked directly up to the pillared structure, the knights standing stock-still with their piercing eyes gazing down at us. With a nod from the knights at the door to our escorts, we passed through the immense entryway to a great hall with a high ceiling. Its very size took my small breath away. Tapestries hung on the walls, some of ancient Rohirric stories I knew from songs and others that were completely new to me. In the center of the hall was a glowing hearth, whose smoke drifted lazily to a small patch of blue sky inthe ceiling, as small as my little fingernail in its height. On either side of the main open space were more engraved pillars, behind which were the tapestry-laden walls.  
  
Before I could really take in the size of the main portion of the hall, the knights led us to the end of the room, where a few stairs led up to a dais. A kindly-looking man with dusky blond hair and a golden headpiece sat in an elaborately engraved oak chair, his hands folded placidly. His eyes lit up as we approached, as if we had surprised him with our arrival. I knew full well he had expected us; why would a King laze around in a chair all alone otherwise? He smiled, and I suddenly felt very small. I glanced nervously at Éomer, but he did not return my look and instead walked up and bowed to the King. He motioned for me to come as well. I gave an awkward tilt of my head forward, trying to imitate Éomer.  
  
You were supposed to curtsey, goose, he hissed, trying to suppress a smile. I flushed and stared at the stone floor while Bircwine dropped into a graceful curtsey. The King began to chuckle softly as my face grew hotter and hotter.  
  
Do not feel ashamed, child. I am your _fædera_, and I shall not judge you based on your curtseying abilities. I looked up for a moment, and saw that he smiled still. He put his hand on my shoulder, looking into my face.  
  
Éowyn Éomundsdohtor. You are the image of your mother's mother. My mother, Morwen of Lossarnach. He switched his gaze to Éomer. You, Éomer Éomundssunu, you are more like to Éomund himself. A strong warrior you will one day be. He leaned back, reminiscing.  
  
Folk have said I resemble my father, Éomer piped up suddenly. He gave me a look, prompting me to say something.  
  
I, ah... yes, that is quite true, Éomer. Oh, why did I not have something to say! Anything just to prove to the King we were not deaf and dumb. I looked down at the floor again. Awkwardly quiet moments passed, until the King looked out from his reverie and broke the silence.  
  
I sense that you both are still quite nervous. Very understandable; this room is quite daunting, is it not? he waved his hand in front of him. I nodded vaguely. Ah, look, children, now you may meet with my son, the Prince Théodred. Théodred, here are you cousins--nay, your brother and sister, for they are as good as son and daughter to me. A young man had entered the hall from an archway inthe corner. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with the same dusky blond hair as his father. A trace of stubble grew on his face. He smiled as he saw us, and sank into a deep bow. This time I attempted a return curtsey and almost lost my balance. I noticed Bircwine blushed profusely as Théodred bowed to her as well. So much for Hunig.  
  
he said jovially, and clasped our hands. Let that be the first and last bow between us, brother and sister. Much too stuffy for kin, in my opinion.  
  
He had a way for making us feel at ease. After barely a few minutes, the King (who had insisted that we address him as Fædera Théoden and not Your Highness) had brought us to the dining room where we ate our midday meal. We were conversing easily soon enough, for Fædera Théoden and Théodred had bombarded us with questions about life in the East Emnet. It was pleasant to speak of what we knew while dining with two men who seemed to chew, swallow and digest our words along with the food they ate. Fædera Théoden especially wished to know about his sister and how she had lived before her untimely death. Though we all shed many tears, I found the pain ebbing away as I spoke of her ritual of braiding my hair every morning, how she raged the time Éomer had led me to the Wall on the back of Berhtberie once and back, how she would always beg of me to act like a proper lady. We laughed, and I felt suddenly welcome in a new and much grander house.  
  



	4. A Walk in the City

Chapter 4  
  
**A Walk in the City**  
  
[January 3003, T.A.]  
  


  
I woke up on a midwinter morning shaking with cold. The draperies on the windows of the Southwest tower of Meduseld and the many layers of woolen blankets wrapped around me did nothing to muffle the drafts of freezing air seeping through the stone. From the depths of my foggy chill I sensed Bircwine shuffling about the room. I heard her humming a children's song so greatly jumbled over the years that it was scarcely more than mindless babble now. Yet it comforted me, for it was my favorite song, and her sweet Eastfold accent reminded me of home....  
  
I moaned softly, the cold having numbed my ability to form words. Bircwine stopped humming.  
  
G'morning, Éowyn, she said cheerfully, scuffling over to my bedside.   
  
Good morning, Bircwine, I mumbled, rubbing my eyes and pulling myself into a sitting position.   
  
Wake ye'self up, lass; I've got ye clothes picked out already, she said briskly, and began to hum again, this time throwing in some words at the rhyming parts. She tugged at the corners of her veil and tried in vain to wrap it all the way around her chin. Best wrap ye'self up warmly as possible, for today's weather could freeze the summer sun if it had a mind to.  
  
Oh, bother, I muttered groggily with one eye open, may I not go out today with Éomer? I glanced nervously at the plump young commoner. If my clothes had been specially chosen, it meant a formal occasion was to take place that day. But I could think of no occasion that ws likely to be of importance to me at the time.  
  
Oh, ye may, child, don't be worrying! Bircwine laughed, and tossed a worn pair of breeches and a particularly lumpy tunic at me. Due to the stiffness in my limbs brought on by the intense cold, I could only move from my bed very slowly.   
  
What news from the servants' quarters? I asked as I pulled the breeches on roughly. They were an old pair of Éomer's and were much too large for me. I rolled up the ends three times before they were the correct length, and the waist was simply a lost cause. Bircwine laughed softly before answering.  
  
Not much as appened of late. Æspe cut a finger with Afæst's cooking knife, nowt else. But my, did she holler and my, did the little lad scream!  
  
Clumsy Æspe. He was the son of a servingmaid and the scandal of Court. His mother was an unmarried lass of seventeen who had borne Æspe while in the intense training for the Royal _Éored_. I had heard a lad telling Éomer of her curious position as a Shieldmaiden. She had once been a noble but was, after her pregnancy, cast down among the common folk. Loose women, he called these Shieldmaidens. That scared me; would one day my limbs loosen and fall off? Did all women become loose? I stared calculatingly at Bircwine and noted that her arms and legs looked quite attached to her body. But then, she was no Shieldmaiden.  
  
Fædera Théoden in his kindness had hired Æspe's mother as a servingmaid when no one else would, for she was shamed throughout the City. I saw her sometimes, scrubbing the floors or tending the fires in the kitchens. She never looked up; her eyes were always cast downward as if she were afraid to meet another's eyes. Her face was sad and darkened by the sun, and there was no love in her for her son who had ruined her reputation and chances at the noble position of a Rider of Rohan.  
  
I pity the lad, Bircwine said with a sigh, for now he must grow up the unwanted bastard of some Rider he'll never know. Those lasses in the éoreds are quite the talk of the servants' quarters at times, I'll ave ye know. They're nowt more than loose women, some are saying. Only want to surround themselves with desirable men, they say, no matter what the hist'ry tells us. She clucked her tongue disapprovingly, and I could not decide whether it was at the Shieldmaidens or their slanderers.  
  
But I want to be a Rider, Bircwine, I said enthusiastically, meeting her eyes. I want to lead an éored to battle against Mordor and the Orcs and the Dunlendings, maybe, if we haven't found peace with any of them when I am grown.... Bircwine's expression changed; she laughed and ruffled my hair.   
  
Ye may be whatever ye're wanting to be, tho' I ave a mind to believe ye'll be wanting to be a lovely lady at court before long. I said nothing but pulled my tangled head through the top of my coarse tunic. Now, let me braid ye hair, child, so as ye don't get it tangled into one giant knot. You have come quite close to that this morning, I'll ave ye know. I consented and sat in the embroidered chair by the small window, gripping the roots of my hair so as to lessen the pain of the comb scraping my scalp. Bircwine descended upon my hair like a hawk to its prey, hacking violently at every last tangle and knot until my scalp was pink and raw and my hair gleamed with the rays of distant winter sunlight through the window. Then, abandoning all her former vigor, she separated my hair gently into six sections and wove two long braids from my brow down my back.   
  
Before I left the room, I grabbed my close-fitting leather cap and tucked both braids inside. I felt more a part of the group when I did, for if I let my braids hang down, I was more usually treated like a fragile young lady instead of another little Rider out for the day in Edoras. I strapped my wooden sword to my belt for the sheer joy of having my own, said goodbye to Bircwine, and pattered down the tower steps to the Great Hall.  
  
At the broad oak doors Éomer waited for me. The doorward, seeing me arrive, heaved open the doors and we were greeted with a blast of icy wind and a few snowdrops flew into our eyes. I pulled my cap down over my ears and glanced at the impressive view of the city before acting on Éomer's cry of Race you to the stables!   
  
Cheater! You started running before you finished the sentence! Éo-- I yelled after him. He was much too fast for me, being eleven years old and I only seven. But I tried desperately to catch up with him through the gates of the grounds of Meduseld and into the streets of the city. He was not even heading for the stables! _Cheater_, I thought good-naturedly of him.   
  
Ay! Whoa, there, lad! Mind yer mismatched, ugly litle feet, why not! Ye near flew straight into me cart--! a gruff voice called after me as I wound between the masses of cityfolk and carts and horses and vendors calling from their small booths parked by the side of the road. I saw Éomer distantly ahead of me, his own golden hair whipping about in the swirls of fog and flurries. I saw him turn and check to see by how much he was winning, smiling despite the violence of the weather. His mouth moved as if he were calling out something to me, though I could not hear it through the wind. Growing weary, I finally sprinted to the side of the road where he stood, panting and rubbing his hands together.  
  
What...was it...you said to me, brother? I said, tucking my fingers up into my cap in a lame attempt to warm them. Instead, my head grew icy cold. Bother.  
  
I was shouting for you to stop running. You looked like you were having a bit of trouble with Old Anlaf.  
  
Old Anlaf? Éomer still knew more of the City and its residents than I, though it had been near half a year since our arrival at Edoras. He was allowed more time away from Meduseld, after all.  
  
The warty old vendor whose cart you near knocked over. Nasty old fellow. Wouldn't like to get in trouble with him myself, Éomer said casually, though his teeth chattered. Minutes passed and we began to stroll down the crowded street, somewhat sheltered by the bodies of taller people around us. _Cursian_, it's cold, he swore.  
  
Mother hated it when you swore, I pointed out. He shook his head as if to be rid of thoughts about her.   
  
Let's go to an inn somewhere and sit by the fire. I can't stand this cold, he said, shuddering. I was secretly glad he said so, for I never liked to be the one who caved in first.  
  
Go to an inn where? There're no inns round this part of the City, I think, I said, hugging myself and closing my eyes so no more snowdrops could sting them. Winters in the Westfold, I had observed, were just as unbearably cold as those back in the Eastfold. Besides, Fædera Théoden says we are not to get ourselves tangled in the business of grown folk or commoner children--  
  
Well, who ever said Fædera would have to know? Éomer said with a sly smirk. Just for a little while. Not like we shall make a routine of going into dark inns and conversing with dodgy folk. We just need a rest. Do _you_ enjoy this dismal wind?  
  
Well, no, and without another word we headed for the main road that would take us down the slopes into the district where pickpockets walked free and strange hooded men stayed in the shadows. As we entered the dark street, suddenly the wind seemed still and the snow fell to the ground without so much as a whistle in air. I craned my neck to see the tops of the buildings which blocked the wind from this certain street. They were of similar style to the others in the City, wattle-and-daub and very practical, yet they had an air of mystery about them with their dark windows and faded signs.   
  
A chill went up my spine as I noticed the types of people we were walking among.  
  
I faltered, seeing a woman with uncovered hair--a sure sign of a bad woman--and a very vibrantly dyed dress which was much too tight and short for her. Many men in dark hooded cloaks peered at us from shadowed corners, and the only children on the street were at least five years older than Éomer and had small bones and metal studs through their ears.   
  
Oh, shush, Wyn, this is not so bad at all, he said, though I could sense his nervousness. We walked along for a little while, Éomer taking turns at random corners to seem as if he knew his way around. We had just entered a rather dim cobbled alley when I dropped down to re-lace my boot. On the snow-dusted street I saw the shadow of a figure standing still behind us. Trying to stay calm, I slowly laced my boot and drew myself up next to Éomer. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a blurred figure in black who was now walking silently behind us to our left, careful not to get in Éomer's line of vision and staying just within the boundaries of mine. I dared not speak to my brother, bid him run away or lead me away from this dark place, for I knew the man would strike.   
  
I took Éomer's hand and squeezed it tightly so that he looked down at me in concern. My eyes wide, I tried to mouth out a message, but he just tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.  
  
Sister, what's wrong? And as soon as it was uttered, I sensed the man's pace quicken so that he could be heard, and he sprung out of the shadows. I felt his arms entwine suffocatingly around my neck and his hand clamp over my mouth, muffling my scream. Frantically my eyes sought Éomer but my head had been stuffed into the man's cloak, and the smell of his sweat was almost overpowering. I heard Éomer's voice, yelling wildly for help, and felt him beating the man with his small fists. In the darkness I found his hand, which was cold and clammy. He pulled at my arm to try to help me break free, but with a swift movement from my captor his hand felt limp and fell away. My head collided with something cold and solid, and all became night.  
  
  
  



	5. Carriage Driver Bircwine

Chapter 5  
  
**Carriage-Driver Bircwine**  
  
  
  


I smelled the comforting aroma of Mother's tonic before my eyes opened to a piercing white light. My head had swam through clouds of sticky sweat and I felt as if I could not move my legs, for they were in a thick swamp or mire or vat of solid butter. But still I felt cold, cold and bruised. My skull pounded.  
  
There, lass, be sleeping easy... don't be waking yeself before ye be ready...  
  
I tried to turn, to get my throbbing head into a more comfortable position, but I could not. My limbs seemed unattached to my body. My eyes fluttered open again and the light stung and made them water, but I squinted and tried to recall where I was and why I was there. Mother's hand felt my forehead and sang to me a song of days gone by in Rohan, a sad sweet ballad I had hazy memories of having sung to me by my mother. I finally moved my hand to grasp Mother's but the hand I found was plump and young while Mother's had always been thin and frail. Realization swept through me as Bircwine's apple-round face swam into view.  
  
There, lady, she said, softly stroking my hair. 'Ow like ye are to ye father in nature, lass, but oh, ow my lady lives on in ye fair face! Her gentle pink fingers brushed on my forehead again and I felt a fierce stab of pain. I realized that, in waking, I had also reawakened the hurts in every muscle of my body. My cry of pain caused Bircwine to draw back instantly and drop the motherly tone which she had assumed and slip back to her somewhat daft, naïve figure.  
  
Bircwine...I do not remember why I hurt so, I mumbled thickly. She clucked pathetically and patted my arm, a comforting gesture that nevertheless shot spears of pain through my arm.   
  
Well, Éowyn, I'm not knowing for meself, nay, tho' I ave been told... she bit her lip.  
  
  
  
They're saying ye could ave _died_, she whispered, eyes open in horror. Ye and ye brother both--bless the lad! And bless that Gríma, sich a dear man; if not for im, coming to find ye down sich a dark place... Ye both the two of ye would join the Queen, bless er, in the royal mounds, the maid finished dramatically with much gesticulation.  
  
Gríma? That courtier who practically lives on bended knee to Fædera? I have seen him skulking about, though I have not thought much about him--  
  
Neither as any of us all, nowt til recent. E is with ye fædera now, I am thinking. Bircwine snatched a cup from a tray that rested on an oak table and poured herself some hot water, not bothering to add the tonic. I sipped my own. How it reminded me of winters in Aldburg clutching a warm cup whilst gazing out at the snow-covered plains, safe in the arms of Mother and talking to Éomer!-- In any case, now e is being treated as quite the   
  
You still have not told me what he has done, I pointed out, and almost spilled the piping hot tonic all over my itchy shift, which, I noticed, was slightly tattered.   
  
_Éomer's hand, cold and clammy..._  
  
My heart sped up. Yes! Our quest for an inn fire had led us down that snowy alleyway....My untied boot... The hooded man, the one in furs, his sweat making such a stench--how could I not have recalled _that_?  
  
Sensing my nervousness and excitement as I began to remember, Bircwine stood up and walked over to the window, pulling the heavy green draperies away.  
  
Strange, I--I cannot quite remember waht e told me, Bircwine said, puzzled. But I do know it was quite eroic, that I do remember!  
  
He must have saved us from that man-- I stopped myself. I wasn't so sure I wanted to let Bircwine know about the man who had captured me and injured Éomer, for surely when my brother just fell away like that it couldn't have been his own doing. Éomer! Where was he? I clapped my hand to my forehead, ignoring the pain.  
  
What is it, lass?  
  
Éomer! I must see him.  
  
But e's not...Oh, child...  
  
Without waiting for approval, I sat up painfully and fell out of bed onto the floor. Looking at the gleaming wood up close, I realized something.  
  
  
  
Yes, child?  
  
Am I a princess now?  
  
Yea, child, as the foster-daughter of the King some call ye a princess. Bircwine peered down at me curiously. Might ye be needin' a bit o' help getting yeself to ye brother's chamber?  
  
Yes, please, Bircwine. She bent over and pulled me up by the wrists, and I tried not to scream as my arms became aflame. Bircwine's thin eyebrows furrowed in concern.  
  
She pulled a blanket from my bed and wrapped me in it, and then sat me down in Mother's old embroidered chair, the one I sat in each morning as Bircwine braided my hair. Well, ye canna walk, and ye're much too big to carry. Ye are sich a princess o' the Mark that ye'll travel round on ye throne. Courtesy o' Bircwine Brembel's daughter, the throne-carriage-driver.  
  
She took a great running start from across the room and pushed the chair out the open doorway and into the winding stone stairway. We would have to go all the way to the base of my southwest tower to Éomer's southeast one.  
  
'Old on tight, missy, Bircwine growled, grinning, This carriage willna be stopping for nowt. I laughed gaily and clutched the velvet armrests nervously. And off we slid, thumping down the winding stairway with ease, Bircwine wrenching the headrest round the curves and sometimes standing on the supports and coming for the ride with me. Our shrieks of laughter and sometimes fear echoed in the dark tower until we shot through the southwest archway into the Golden Hall, where apparently a meeting was being conducted. Fædera Théoden sat at his chair with that Gríma man and a few of his councillors. All of them stared at us as we flew into the immense hall on the late Princess Théodwyn's heirloom chair, panting and shaking with laughter.   
  
Bircwine was first to compose herself. When she looked up, she immediately stopped laughing and straightened her back. I knew I should not laugh, but one last frightened giggle escaped me before Bircwine erupted in breathy apologies.  
  
My--my gravest regrets, sirs, for interruptin' ye council--the Lady Éowyn and I, we, well, twas under no fault o' the Lady's that this came to appen. Twas all for fault of mine. See, I jsut thought the lass needed a laugh, for what she's just been through...  
  
Worry not, Bircwine Brembel's daughter. Éowyn, rise from the chair, the King commanded, and I rose uncertainly to my aching feet. Are you hurt, my daughter? He himself had risen from his grand throne and approached me cautiously.  
  
No, fædera, uncle, I whispered.  
  
I am glad. Where, might I ask, had you and Bircwine been heading on such a... his golden beard quivered as he struggled not to show his amusement, _unique_ chair?  
  
To Lord Éomer's bedchamber, Fædera Théoden.  
  
On Théodwyn--on your mother's chair?  
  
Yes, Fædera.  
  
He inspected me for a moment, still wrapped in a woolen blanket and shifting my weight from foot to foot, and I saw him suppress a laugh.  
  
Very well. You may be off to the Southeast Tower, Éowyn. But pray do not use anymore heirlooms of the House of Eorl for carriages! Bircwine, you may accompany her. I shall speak with you when I am finished discussing the matter of your young mistress's rescue with my councilmen. He strode back to his seat, and I could have sworn he winked at me before rejoining the conversation.  
  



End file.
